Christmas Bells
by Ice Spectre
Summary: In the stress and rush of keeping books balanced, keeping tickets sold and keeping demons in check, someone has forgotten what is truly important in this life - those we love.
1. Shinguji's Ghost

**SAKURA TAISEN/WARS** and all related characters, names and indicia are TM & © SEGA RED.

**A CHRISTMAS CAROL** is written by Charles Dickens, and borrowed by Ice Spectre for her own nefarious purposes.

Warning: Crossover/AU

_Author's Note: I have omitted Reni, Orihime and Ratchet for reasons of having no characters left to cast them as - which is sad because I ADORE Reni and I like Orihime (though I LOATHE Ratchet). Gomen-nasai!!! In addition, I have tried to use/bastardize as many direct quotes from Dickens' classic as I could manage, so if you recognize a phrase or dozen, that's why._

Rated PG

* * *

**Christmas Bells**

Part One: Shinguji's Ghost

Shinguji was dead; to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The words upon his gravestone bore witness to his fateful demise in the war. Yoneda had signed the certificates and documents required by the army. Yoneda's name was good within the army for whatever he chose to put his hand to.

Yoneda knew Shinguji was dead, how could it be otherwise? Yoneda and he had been soldiers together for no one knows how many years. But we stray from the point. Shinguji was dead, and this must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful will come of the story I am about to relate.

General Yoneda never changed the picture that hung on the wall in his office, despite the loss of two of the four people in it. The hardness never left him after Shinguji's death, it aged him, thinned his hair, shriveled his cheek, and kept him full to besotted with sake every opportunity he had.

The heat did not distress him, nor did he notice the cold through his nearly perpetual drunken evasion of the present, and all those around him knew when to avoid him at all costs. Questions and inquiries were deflected to Kaede Fujieda, and anyone forced to deal with the General tiptoed around him carefully. Even Christmas could not ease the ache in the General's heart. Not even Christmas Eve, which it was this particular day.

General Ikki Yoneda's office door was open that he might keep an eye on his lieutenant, Ichiro Ohgami, who was in a dismal little office beyond, not much larger than a broom closet, struggling with balancing the registers from the past month at the theatre box office. The heating ducts were all closed in the office suite, all but one, over Yoneda's desk. And Ohgami had better not open one, for fear of the wrath of the General and a lecture on the price of propane. He chafed his hands together to keep his fingers from stiffening with cold, then bent over the ink-scrawled pages of the box office register again.

"A Merry Christmas, General!" came a high, thin voice, startling both Yoneda and Ohgami. Into the office breezed Count Hanakoji, his glass-topped cane held high in his widespread arms, his glasses glinting merrily on the tip of his sharp nose, and the scent of cashmere and cold winter released by the melting snowflakes on his scarf and the shoulders of his wool coat.

"Baka!" Yoneda muttered, startled enough to spill a little porcelain cup of sake over the papers he was perusing. "Fuzakeru!" He began to dab up the spill with a handkerchief, ink smudging on the pages.

"Fuzakeru?" Hanakoji blinked, taken mildly aback, but his spirit not at all dampened. "Come, Yoneda, you cannot mean that! Christmas is hardly just child's play."

"I do mean that," Yoneda slurred, wringing his handkerchief out into the trash can peevishly. "A Merry Christmas? What right have you to be merry? What reason? You've seen the books for last month, we're down from last quarter."

"And what right and reason have you to be dismal?" Hanakoji countered. "Our Christmas Spectacular opens tomorrow, a one-day-only engagement, and it is already sold out!"

Lacking a good argument in favour of remaining dismal in light of the good news, Yoneda repeated, "Fuzakeru!"

"Don't be cross, Yoneda," Hanakoji urged, his smile warming, breaking his aged face into a network of joyful lines and creases.

"HOW can I be anything else?" Yoneda rose abruptly, his hands splayed on his desk. "What is Christmas but a chance for everyone to spend too much money, money they haven't got – feeling obliged to buy presents for anyone upon whom they need to ingratiate themselves, for closing up the books of an entire year and having the records of the last twelve months presented back to you and held up to examination, finding fault and owing money and taxes, the time of year when we're all the poorest, and the time of year everyone goes about as if they are rich, throwing money away on gaudy decorations and chintzy lights and foil paper and useless bric-a-brac that no one in ten years will remember who gave them what, or what possible use they could have for a crystal paperweight in an office where the windows do not even open enough to generate a breeze!"

"Yoneda!" Count Hanakoji was surprised at this outpouring of disdain for the joyful holiday. He seemed almost imploring, his hands out to the General.

"Count, please – keep Christmas in your own way, and permit me to keep it in mine."

"But you DON'T keep it at all!"

"Then let me leave it alone." Yoneda sat down again, resting his chin in his hands and turning his attention back to his alcohol-soggy papers. "Much good may it do you to keep it. Not that it's ever done you any good."

"It's certainly done me no harm," Hanakoji chuckled, folding his arms across his chest, his cane dangling loosely from his fingers and laying gently against his leg.

"Oh no? Have you seen the state of your personal budget every January?" Yoneda gestured to the books he kept for Hanakoji, one of the Imperial Theatre's largest investors and most enthusiastic patrons.

"There are a great many things in this world, General, from which much good can be derived without amounting to a single coin – including Christmas. No, I have never profited financially by Christmas, but besides being a holy day, Christmas is also a time for kindness, forgiveness, charity. It is the one time of the year I can imagine in which the rich are not afraid to open their hearts to the poor, and the two do not look upon each other as different races of creatures, but as fellows, one and the same, only in different situations. When men walk side by side, keep each other's company, regardless of station. When families gather and love reigns supreme. That is why I keep Christmas, Yoneda, not because it brings in any money, but because it strengthens the soul of one and all."

From his broom-closet office, Ohgami cheered, and then abruptly ceased when his eyes met Yoneda's, glaring witheringly at the boy over his small, round, wire-rimmed glasses.

"Come," Hanakoji insisted. "Accept my invitation." He thrust a wax-sealed envelope into Yoneda's hands and the General broke the seal to read the silver embossed invitation.

"You are cordially invited to Christmas Dinner. Guests of Honour will include the renowned actresses of the Imperial Opera Theatre," Yoneda read, then looked up accusingly at Hanakoji. "You cleared this through Maria without consulting me."

Ohgami became nearly physically smaller in his chair. Hanakoji had Ohgami's approval as well. All patrons of the arts have their favourite performers. Most of the theatre's patrons favoured the entrancing soprano and biggest star of the theatre, Miss Sumire Kanzaki. However, Count Hanakoji had taken a particular liking to the theatre's premiere mezzo-soprano, Maria Tachibana. Her location and rescue in New York was in no small part due to his intervention, financially, and he had become, in recent years, a sort of confidant and father-figure to the former Mafia bouncer. Hanakoji tended to deal with the Imperial Opera Theatre through Maria rather than directly with Yoneda.

"Don't blame the girl, Yoneda. She was just doing what she believed best for the _financial_ interests of the theatre. After all, some of tomorrow's proceeds will go to you."

That seemed to spare Maria the wrath of the General, and Hanakoji had been kind enough not to mention Ohgami at all, who was already in enough trouble. Yoneda found a new bone of contention. "Why do you foster Maria so lavishly, anyway? A silver oil lamp... a pen and ink set in purest white gold, and parchment as well... You are spoiling her."

"_Spoiling_!" Hanakoji laughed. "First of all, that girl had nothing to begin with, the poorest of your actresses, and with the fewest requests for any sort of accommodation. Secondly, do you truly think my meager, rare gifts are taking away any of the shine from the lavishings Sumire receives daily? Come to the dinner and sit with us. Besides, Yoneda, I cannot help it. She is my favourite."

"Your favourite!" Yoneda said as if there were nothing more ridiculous in the world. "Good afternoon."

"No, no... you've never come to these events before and had a different reason each time, why blame it now on this? Because Maria approved the public appearance without going through you first? Or because I am her patron? Would you rather I were Sumire's? Or the theatre itself alone?"

"Good afternoon," Yoneda repeated, more firmly this time.

"Or is it because even someone as old as I, and even someone as cold as Maria, can appreciate the spirit of Christmas, and you cannot?"

"Good afternoon!" Yoneda insisted, looking up from his papers to glare at Hanakoji.

"No, I came here in the spirit of brotherhood, and I will not let you dampen it! So! A merry Christmas to you, Yoneda!"

"Good afternoon!!!" he yelled as if his volume could shove Hanakoji from the room.

"AND a happy New Year!" the Count added as he turned to go, a smile still on his lips.

"FUZAKERU!!!"

Ohgami opened the door for Hanakoji and let him into the theatre's main lobby. It was colder in there, the floors being all marble and leading to many glass doors at the front of the theatre. "Merry Christmas, Ohgami," he smiled as he bundled up again, buttoning up the front of his black cashmere coat.

"Merry Christmas, Count Hanakoji!" the boy eagerly replied, holding the Count's hat and cane for him as he wrapped his scarf.

"And how are you this Christmas, son? Well, I hope?" Hanakoji paused long enough for Ohgami to nod. "And how are the girls? Maria is well, I assume?"

"I suppose so, sir... most times it's hard to tell!" Ohgami chuckled.

"And Sumire? Beautiful as ever, I hope? And Kanna, is she full of the spirit of the season? Of course she is! And how is Kohran doing with the adjustments to the Koubu hip joints? Going up and down stairs even faster now, I am certain. Iris cannot wait for morning, isn't that right? And Sakura... holding everyone together like glue, I presume?"

"Yes, sir, and teaching us some of the country traditions, too. I've never made a popcorn string until this past week!"

Hanakoji laughed. "And how many times did you prick your finger?"

Ohgami's face was suffused with a deep blush. "I lost count, sir."

"Well, you stop early tonight, do you hear me? And make certain that old grouch does, too, or he'll work all the way through till morning."

"I'll do my best, sir," Ohgami handed the Count's hat and cane back to him and watched him leave. Just as he was turning to go back into his office, two more gentlemen entered, talking amicably to each other, and headed straight into Yoneda's office, seeming not to notice Ohgami's stammering attempt at objection and warning.

"Do we have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Shinguji?" the taller of the duo asked brightly as he entered, trailed by a fretting Ohgami, who caught his breath and cringed at this question.

Yoneda stiffened. "Mr. Shinguji has been dead these ten years. You have the dubious pleasure of addressing General Yoneda."

"Ah..." the gentleman blanched and covered his reaction by handing a file folder to Yoneda. Yoneda unraveled the string from the clasp and opened the folder to glance at the proposal as the gentleman continued, his stouter partner silent and rosy-cheeked at his side. "I trust his generosity is well represented by his surviving comrade..."

The word 'generosity' was Yoneda's cue to close the folder. "Sorry, gentlemen, but perhaps you haven't seen the box office this winter. We can't afford the luxury of charity."

"But sir..." now the rounder partner spoke to Yoneda, "It is at this time of year when we must strive our hardest to make some small provision for the poor and destitute, now when their poverty is felt most sharply—"

"That is why the government has programs to care for the needy, not theatres. We pay our taxes to the government – and barely, at that – and they provide for the poor and destitute. Ohgami, show these gentlemen to the door."

"Sir, if y—"

"Good day, gentlemen." And the subject was fully closed. Sheepishly, Ohgami opened the door for the two charity workers.

Ohgami slipped carefully back behind his desk after the men had left – as if the slightest noise might set Yoneda off again. He was relieved to hear Yoneda exhale some of the tension. Then he stiffened again when he heard a low and whispered voice down the hall. Then a much higher and much less whispered voice.

"But Iris can fix everything, you will see!"

Then a slightly less subdued protest – in Russian – and Iris appeared in Yoneda's door, decked in glittery red and gold, with a beaming smile on her small face, and broke into a loud and enthusiastic round of "_Un flambeau, Jeanette Isabelle_." Yoneda gritted his teeth as Maria knelt beside Iris and put a hand on her shoulder, pleading with the girl to retreat, wary eyes daring to glance occasionally at Yoneda.

"_Le Christ est nee, Ma-RIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE appelle, Ah! Ah! Ah que l'enfent est beeeeeeeeeeeeeee-lle, ah, ah—"_

"GET OUT!"

And Iris's French carol was interrupted by the slam of Yoneda's office door, a breeze of cold air, and an exchange of worried glances between Ohgami and Maria. Iris turned to Maria and burst into tears, weeping into the shoulder of Maria's black wool coat.

* * *

The remainder of the day passed in cool silence, and Ohgami was elated to finally see Yoneda rise from his desk shortly after the sun had set on the gloomy day. "Finished in there, Ohgami?" Yoneda asked and Ohgami cringed.

"Not... quite... sir..." He'd finished three books and had most of one still to go.

"You'll want tomorrow off anyway, though, I am certain."

"...if... if quite convenient... I promised the girls that Maria and I would take them downtown to see the lights... and..."

"It's not quite convenient, and it's not fair. The books aren't finished and the first of the year won't wait for us, money is very tight until after tomorrow evening's show, yesterday's final dress rehearsal was a disaster, the girls want to see LIGHTS... and you all want to be paid for a day of no working." Yoneda sighed. "I suppose you'd better all take the day, all the same. Go... you and Maria take the girls to see the lights, but be BACK in time for costume, wig and makeup call. If the curtain rises any more than the customary six minutes late... there WILL be hell... and money!... to pay!"

"Yes, sir! We will, sir!" Ohgami nearly knocked his chair over with how quickly he jumped out of it, saluted, and ran off, his tie streaming back over his shoulder in his wake, the pages of the unfinished book fluttering ahead of where he left off. Yoneda simmered and stepped into the snowy, slushy streets of Tokyo in search of his favourite restaurant. But the place was packed on Christmas Eve, and turning customers away in favour of the ability to close early. Yoneda got a few bread rolls and a paper cup of hot tea to go and headed back to his apartments in the Imperial Opera Theatre.

Yoneda entered via the back stair so he would not have to confront anyone. He muttered to himself as the streetlight above the alleyway fizzled and popped, and went dark. "Perfect," Yoneda thought, reaching out with his empty hand to feel along the stone wall of the theatre and sloshing piping hot tea onto his other freezing cold hand as he stumbled toward the back door. He put his key in the door and reached to turn the latch, and nearly yelped in surprise when he looked up at the stained glass window set into the door and saw instead of a fleur-de-lis Shinguji's face.

Yoneda's eyes widened. He confronted demons on a regular basis, but this was different. He blinked as if to clear his vision, but the ghostly image remained. Shinguji's dark hair moved lightly as if in a strange wind, his eyes were closed, and his face was constructed of an eerie light, like swamp water amid the inky shadows. Yoneda reached out to touch the apparition...

...but it was no more than stained glass set into the door.

"Fuzakeru!" he muttered to himself, blaming the vision upon the mention of Shinguji's name earlier, and the long hours of work with all sake and no food. Still, he yanked open the door and flipped the stairwell light on very suddenly, as if he half expected to find Sakura's father standing inside the hall. But he was not there. Now fully dismissing the vision, he climbed the stairs.

Just as he reached the door of his rooms at the top of the stairs, a noise like thunder echoed through the halls, like thunder and wind and rain and a tide all together, and then faded into silence. Yoneda yelped in surprise and pressed his back against the wall, searching for the source of the sound and failing to find it. After looking this way and that for an onslaught of demons and seeing none, he decided it must have been the contraction of metal in the ductwork above the theatre – for certainly without him to regulate the use of heat, it must have been turned up. Resolving his fear back into irritation, Yoneda entered his rooms and set his paper bag of rolls and cup of cooling tea on the end table next to the leather sofa that sat before the fireplace.

It was a remarkable fireplace, scrollwork of ancient and stunning wood, painted scarlet and gold and carved into boxy patterns under the mantle. To the right of the mantle was carved cherry blossoms – sakura – mimicking the style of the Imperial temple; and likewise, oranges – tachibana – to the left. This was one of the most exquisite pieces in the Imperial Opera Theatre, and was, when Yoneda permitted it, included in the Backstage Tour Package. Yoneda's own décor included two folding paper screens to the right and left of the entire fireplace. Both were deep, brick red, painted in burnished gold, brilliant green, bright silver and jet black, images of demons and angels battling across the Japanese countryside. This was his own private tribute to the theatre's secret purpose.

Before taking a seat to rest, Yoneda bolted the door. Just in case. And to make up for the heat being used in the theatre, he turned his own down, and put logs in the fireplace instead. Drawing a blanket over himself and pulling the sofa a bit nearer to the flames, he sat in near darkness and opened the lid of his paper cup of tea.

On the wall inside his living room was an alarm with a red light. This was used to alert everyone in the building when the Koubu would need to be deployed to avert an attack. The alarm was a shrill and ringing bell. And a bell sounded, now, but it was not the modern sound to which Yoneda was accustomed. Instead, it rang like a hanging brass bell, slowly and rhythmically, as it did back in days when he himself would be off to fight the demons... and with no Koubu to assist him.

Transfixed, Yoneda stared at the bell that should no longer make that noise, all colour draining from his face in horror. And then the bell fell silent. Quickly, he ran to the telephone to alert Kaede, to see if something was wrong, if the alarm had gone off... but his telephone only produced the same sound... as did the fire... the windows... all his doors... until finally Yoneda sank to his knees in the middle of his living room, hands clamped over his ears, moaning in fear – and the ringing stopped. The silence held nearly more dread than the sound.

Now stood before him on the rug in the living room Sakura Shinguji's father. His eyes stared ahead as if he did not see Yoneda. His eyes were sad and tormented, his hair moved loosely about his shoulders like cobwebs in a breath of air. He was translucent and luminous. His kimono faded at the ankles into a cold mist of nothingness, and his hands disappeared into the opposite sleeves, his arms folded over his chest. Wrapped around him from sources unknown were untold lengths of thin, white fabric, holding him suspended, it seemed, above the rug, loosely twined under his arms, disturbing his hair, binding his waist, clinging to his legs.

"Who are you!" Yoneda demanded.

"Ask me who I was..." the ghost replied.

Yoneda shuddered to hear the soft, distant voice, as if it echoed through a dank tomb. "A-all right... wh-who WERE you, then?"

"In life, I was your partner, Kazume Shinguji..."

"C-can you... can you sit down?" Yoneda asked, rising up partially on his knees, and attempting proper behaviour toward an old friend and comrade.

"I can."

"Do it, then," Yoneda said, a bit too forcefully, strikingly uncomfortable with how the apparition's reactions were not socially natural.

With a breath of icy cold air and a ruffle of dozens of strips of white cloth, Shinguji's ghost sat in an armchair to the right of the fireplace, before the tree that represented his daughter's name. "You do not believe in me..."

"I don't." Yoneda chuckled in an awkward and forced manner, avoiding looking at the ghost.

"Why do you doubt your senses, Yoneda?"

"Because little things affect them," Yoneda began, logically, rising to unsteady feet. "A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. And a little bit of sake makes them bloody inventors. You might well be a pink elephant for all I know! See this bottle?" Yoneda held up the remainder of a bottle of sake.

"I do," Kazume responded, though his gaze remained fixed upon the far window near Yoneda's bed.

Yoneda wiggled the bottle, almost desperate to get the ghost to react to stimuli the way a living creature would. "You're not looking at it!"

"But I see it, notwithstanding."

"Well..." Yoneda set the bottle down again. "All I have to do is finish it in one night in order to be haunted by a choir of ghosts and demons until I sober up again. All this..." he gestured ineffectually, "the bells, you... it's all fuzakeru, I tell you! Fuzake—"

Seemingly hauled to his feet by the white ribbons imprisoning him, Kazume was lifted from his chair and splayed upright in midair, arms and legs outstretched, head flung back in a blood-chilling cry of outrage that seemed to need no breath and would not cease.

"Mercy!" Yoneda cried. "Please! Kazume! Stop!"

"Mortal man, do you believe in me or no?!"

"I do! I believe in you! But... why, my friend?! Why do you walk the earth and why do you come to me?" Yoneda had to bring himself up off his knees again after Shinguji's screams ceased and the ribbons loosened slightly.

"It is required of every man to fulfill his duty in life, to aid his fellow man. Since I was killed before I could complete my charge, I must continue now... until I succeed."

"You are bound..." Yoneda's voice permitted a note of sympathy through the protected walls. "Tell me why?"

"Promises, oaths, bindings I crafted in life, commitments I failed to keep because of my death... I am bound now to hold to my word. Oh... Ikki... if only you knew the wrappings in which you yourself are bound... the promises you have yet to keep."

Yoneda glanced around himself, now, as if he expected the ribbons to come and capture him at this very moment. "Kazume... please... speak comfort to me..."

"I have none to give, Ikki... your comfort comes from other sources, now – and I do not speak of your bottle. I cannot rest, I cannot stay..." Shinguji seemed to strain against the ribbons, and Yoneda noticed one snake around his throat. "How it is that I appear to you in a shape that you can see I am not permitted to tell you. Many days, invisible, have I walked beside you."

This thought was comforting to Yoneda, and he smiled sadly. "You were always an excellent soldier, Kazu—"

"**_SOLDIER?!_** I had more to my life than the dealing of death! And there is more to yours than the remorse of _mine_!"

Yoneda cowered again.

"Tonight you will be visited by three ghosts."

Yoneda, if it was possible, grew even paler. "I... I think I would rather not..."

"You have no choice, Ikki... without their aid, you cannot hope to escape this binding before your death. Expect the first when the clock strikes one."

Before Yoneda could reply, many more spectres appeared, eyes closed and heads held high, the mortal man's presence too insignificant to notice. Each one was an ancestor of Kazume Shinguji. Each one held one of the white ribbons, wrapped many times around his or her wrist, binding them to Kazume. And when they appeared, Kazume bowed to them, and they pulled the ribbons, seeming to tear Shinguji apart, and he disipated like mist. The other ghosts vanished as well, leaving Ikki Yoneda alone and terrified.

Daunted beyond the ability to analyze the situation, General Yoneda fled to bed and pulled the covers over his head.

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_(To be continued... when the bell tolls one!)_ _

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__CAST OF CHARACTERS: (in order of appearance, for this chapter only)_

_Ebeneezer Scrooge - General Ikki Yoneda_

_Frederick (Scrooge's Nephew) - Count Hanakoji_

_Bob Cratchit (Scrooge's Clerk) - Ichiro Ohgami_

_Mrs. Cratchit - Maria Tachibana_

_Tiny Tim - Iris Chateaubriand_

_Jacob Marley's Ghost - Kazume Shinguji's Ghost_

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	2. The Ghost of Christmas Past

SAKURA TAISEN/WARS and all related characters, names and indicia are TM & © SEGA RED.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL is written by Charles Dickens, and borrowed by Ice Spectre for her own nefarious purposes.

Rated PG

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Christmas Bells

Part Two: The Ghost of Christmas Past

_The past is pain. Say goodbye to your memories. Those who cannot face their pasts are eternally haunted by them, tormented, pursued, hunted and defeated by the shadows and spectres given life and breath, augmented, amplified, grown more daunting and more terrifying with each moment of refusal to turn around and look behind to see the reality of what is in pursuit, so afraid it is far more terrible than what can be bourne by any mortal creature. And before long, demons and monsters of your own creation devour your hope, your will and your soul._

_Vershrai moy uchets dva._

When Yoneda awoke, it was so dark that he could barely distinguish the window from the walls of his bedroom. Apparently the streetlight outside had not been fixed. He barely had time to adjust to the new state of being awake when the miniature clock chimed, announcing the time to be one o'clock.

Remembering Kazume Shinguji's ghost and its warning, Yoneda's eyes widened and he pulled the blankets up to his nose. He looked around from this perspective, safely hidden beneath his blankets, and then saw it – a dull glow of light between his bed and the door to his room. It grew slowly and took form as Yoneda pressed himself deeper into the bed in fright. The temperature in the bedroom dropped dramatically – very suddenly. Involuntarily, Yoneda began shivering. It was as cold as the tundra in his room. Snow from nowhere flurried around the room, vanishing before landing anywhere, swirling in an icy wind. A sound like the tap of ice upon glass grew in pitch and resonance to the trembling pizzicato of a stringed instrument, the mournful moan of the wind grew to match its harmony, the tune reminding Yoneda of the smell of hickory wood, the scruff of wool and the heavy, gray-cloud gloom of the Slavic soul.

When fully formed, a spirit stood, regarding him. It was the form of a man, tall and strong but slim, a face chiseled and severe but eyes dark and warm. His beard was thick but carefully trimmed. His coat was wool and fur, his hands mittened and his round fur hat seemed to contain a radiance that was pervasive. Pinned to the lapel of his coat was bouteneer constructed of a sprig of holly, a sprig of mistletoe... and a blooming sprig from a wild orange tree. He was almost painfully brilliant, the light stabbing in white rays through the darkness of the bedroom. And then Yoneda recognized him.

"Do I... Do I know you...?"

Slowly, the ghost inclined his head in the affirmative. This was Maria Tachibana's father. The Ukranian diplomat and his Japanese wife, Suma Tachibana, were banished to Siberia for sympathizing with the uprising revolution and for speaking out against the Czar. They were sent to the icy wastelands along with their nine-year-old daughter Maria, where both parents died of pneumonia almost fifteen years ago. The cold, however, instead of killing Maria, became a part of her. And now, it seemed, a part of her father's ghost.

"A-are you the ghost whose coming was foretold to me?" Yoneda asked, almost demurely.

"_Da,_" the ghost answered him and extended a mittened hand to Yoneda, who recoiled. Despite the strength and severity of the figure, something was penetratingly benevolent about the apparition.

"Who-- what are you?"

"Name was Bryusov Dimitrovich. In life, was noble. Honoured. Diplomat. Tonight, intervene for you, General. For you..." his next words were spoken slowly and very carefully, overcoming the language and dialect barriers, "I am the Past."

"Long past?"

"_Nyet,_" Dimitrovich said kindly, "your past, and past of Hanagumi."

"Please..." Yoneda held a hand shieldingly in front of his face, squinting against the nearly blinding white light. "Can you... cover the light?"

Now Dimitrovich's brow furrowed, and Yoneda was astounded with how like Maria he looked when he wore a troubled expression. "You would so easily try to be blind to past and memories? You turn face from what teaching past can offer?"

"No, no..." Yoneda apologized and stood from his bed, folding his arms against the cold and immediately stepping into the slippers on the floor beside his bed. "I meant no harm nor offense, I only..." He was still having difficulty looking directly at the brilliance of Maria's father's ghost, but lost the words to continue his apology. "What... what brings you here?"

"Your welfare," the ghost answered, his mittened hand still extended.

"My welfare," Yoneda softly murmured, sheepishly, "would perhaps be best served with being able to solidly sleep off the remainder of the alcohol..."

"Your redemption," Dimitrovich clarified, his hand a bit more insistently extended. "Come." The ghost looked to the window, and it blew open, stirring the already cold air and making Yoneda's teeth chatter.

"But... it's cold, and... I can't fly!" Yoneda remained where he was and did not take the ghost's hand.

"Take my hand," Dimitrovich's voice was still hollow and cold but kind. "No cold or height will harm you, then."

When Yoneda touched Dimitrovich's wool-covered fingers, the discomfort from cold eased, the brilliance of the ghost's light dampened and he felt... disconnected... detached from the universe. They did not leave via his window so much as the world moved around them, blurring past them both like a wind that touched neither, and halting without jarring either one in a completely different location.

Champagne, France, 1916. They stood before a grand castle belonging to the Earl of the county. France's nobility no longer had the power they did several hundred years earlier, but they still had all the wealth and influence. The sky was gray and dark as the stone of the castle itself. And silent. They passed unnoticed through the chill halls.

"Can they see us?" Yoneda whispered as a maid carrying a stack of crisply folded white linens brushed past Yoneda so quickly that he could feel the breeze of her passing and smell the scent of the soap from the clean sheets.

Dimitrovich shook his head. "Only are shadows of past, can _nyet_ see or hear us."

As they walked through seemingly endless hallways, they encountered no one else at all. "It's deserted..." Yoneda observed.

"_Nyet, devushka adna..._"

Maria's father spoke in Russian, but Yoneda understood his meaning regardless. The castle was not deserted. One solitary girl, neglected by her family, remained here still. They stopped in front of an iron door equipped with a keyed lock and then a heavy bar. And then they were inside the door. Not by passing through it or opening it... they were just... inside, now.

The room was huge and very dim, lit only by several ornamental and seasonal candles. A small evergreen tree, no more than three feet tall, stood in a corner of the room, trimmed in ribbons and beads, its branches weighted with tiny lit candles. The tiny tree was topped with an angel dressed in pearls and white satin. A child-sized table was set with two taper candles, a champagne flute filled with ginger ale and a china plate edged in gold holding a thin slice of black forest cake drizzled in raspberry sauce. The cake was untouched.

The room's resident sat on an ornate and lace-trimmed canopy bed. A girl no more than seven years old, her hair in golden ringlets and held back with a gold velvet ribbon, sat tailor-fashion in the center of her silk, quilted bed. She wore a velvet and silk dress in deep forest green and rich burgundy, trimmed in the same gold as the ribbon in her hair, ruffles so voluminous that she seemed arranged as neatly on her bed as the skirt of her tree was on the floor. Yoneda would believe her to be a porcelain doll, except that she moved, and that he recognized Iris Chateaubriand the instant he laid eyes on her.

On the bed before her sat her teddy bear, an equally festively coloured velvet ribbon around his neck. "Joyeux Noel, Jean-Paul," the little girl whispered and gave the teddy bear the slightest of smiles.

"I don't understand this, Dimitrovich..." Yoneda shook his head. "You cannot tell me that her parents have neither the time nor the money to spend with her on Christmas?"

"Having time... or having money... does _nyet_ make happiness, General," Dimitrovich's ghost replied, a note of such sorrow in his soft voice that again Yoneda was reminded of the Russian diplomat's own daughter. The Russian continued, "Fear of her keeps her alone, now. Look..."

Dimitrovich turned around and gestured behind them, and when Yoneda turned, suddenly they were elsewhere. A tiny and very poor village in China. The door of a hut with a straw roof stood open. There was no difference between the dirt of the road outside and the dirt floor inside the hut. It was dark outside already, but the inside of the hut was aglow with firelight and warmth. It was cold enough to snow, but the ground was dry and the skies were clear. Again, both men were inside without having seemed to travel or move.

Yoneda did not recognize the man he saw, but he did see he was hurrying to wrap a small bundle in a blanket and stash it in a corner near the fire hearth. The hearth was lined with aromatic branches wrapped with twine and hung with red berries. Other than that, the small house held no decorations. There was a loft above and behind the fireplace, and from what little of it could be seen from the floor, it was filled with cobbled together tools, bits of projects of who knew what destiny, twine, wood, nails, and such a tangle of scavanged parts that they were unidentifiable to Yoneda's untrained eye. And that was what made him certain he knew now who this man was.

Kohran Ri's father.

The pigtailed, freckle-faced, bespectacled girl who came trouncing in at top speed could be no older than ten, and she nearly bowled her father over with an embrace. They spoke in Chinese, and Yoneda did not understand them. He could tell from the expressions and tones and movement, though, that whatever was wrapped in the blanket by the fire was a rare surprise, and – by the way her father managed to keep himself between the gift and Kohran – a surprise which was not yet ready to be revealed. Kohran climbed the ladder to her loft and dropped the thick wool blanket which had been curtained back by the ladder, effectively covering most of her bedroom. She sat at her work bench and began diligent labour on ... _something_.

When her father felt she was sufficiently distracted, he unwrapped the package again and pulled a small bottle of glue from his coat pocket. The package contained a very old and very broken radio. Yoneda was certain it would not work, but when Kohran was through with it, it would. In fact, knowing Kohran, a broken gift was probably better than one that worked properly. Then she would get to tinker with it. Her father worked with such fiercely contained excitement that it was contageous, and Yoneda found himself flushed and grinning.

Dimitrovich placidly regarded the General. "No money... no time... and such joy," the Russian remarked.

Yoneda nodded, smiling. "I believe I understand, Dimitrovich," Yoneda's smile saddened a bit, recalling Kohran's father's fate. "Can we... can we go home now?"

Dimitrovich lifted a mittened hand in a gesture for patience. "One more Christmas..."

Before Yoneda could protest, the world zipped past them again and stopped in a place so loud and so bustling that Yoneda could barely think straight.

It was a bar, and one he recognized as being in the cheaper part of Tokyo. The crowd was loud and drunk. Every stool was occupied. Three card games were going on, loud music was being played by an amplified jazz band in the New York style on a tiny stage in the corner, and one pool table in the back of the bar was surrounded by observers, cheering, booing and betting.

Towering head and shoulders over most of the crowd was a tousled mop of red hair bound off her forehead by a white sash. It was unmistakably Kanna, wearing the top of her white gi and her loudly flowered tights under a pair of weatherproof boots and a beige down jacket. She was also unmistakable because she was one of VERY few women in the bar – it was a little rough of a crowd. She scanned the crowd, searching for something. A loud cheer at the card table caught her momentary attention, but didn't yeild her the results she was seeking. Then she found it. A fight broke out at the pool table. The game was over and the crowd parted to follow the combatants toward the back wall. The table had the cue ball and four striped balls on it. Whomever had been solids had won. Several bills lay on the green felt, and several more fluttered to the floor from the grip of one of the combatants – the one who had won the pool game, and was currently losing the brawl. That's who Kanna was looking for. Dear God, it was Maria.

The man who'd been "stripes" rushed Maria and pinned her against the back wall, jarring her enough for the winnings to fall from her hands. Maria's head was ducked, eyes closed. ...immediately it was evident that she could not be completely sober. The markswoman's usual lithe agility and speed were useless against her opponent's size and strength when under the influence of a respectable measure of vodka.

Kanna cursed. Maria was in trouble, it must be a day ending in 'y.' The blonde had only been in Japan two and a half months. She hadn't been put up in her first production yet, she was virtually unknown, she was drying out as an alcoholic, she'd managed to earn Sumire's unmitigated loathing and had yet to assert her power over Sumire as Captain, she was extremely difficult to deal with and usually very abrupt and prickly, her Japanese was awful, and she tended to disappear without telling anyone where she was going. In short, the Russo-Japanese Captain of the Hanagumi needed a _solid_ kick in the posterior, especially since the only thing separating Maria from a very public and comet-like tailspin disaster of the self-inflicted variety was the frequent and discreet intervention of the only one who seemed Maria's peer in this life: Kanna.

Kanna began digging – _literally_ – her way through the crowd around the developing fight.

Yoneda lunged forward to intervene, but Dimitrovich's hand on his shoulder restrained him. At first, Yoneda turned in shock to Dimitrovich, who would not even intervene to save his daughter from harm, then recalled that this was all just images of the past. None of it could be touched or changed. Nonetheless, Yoneda saw the fire of fiercely restrained outrage leaping behind the Russian diplomat's eyes, simply witnessing his daughter's misuse and self-abuse.

"It's real simple, doll face," said "Stripes' to Maria, slipping his arms firmly around her waist and hauling her away from the wall, holding her tightly against him. She slumped slightly, unable to keep her feet, her head falling backward, then jolting herself back to full awareness and snapping her head up to glare at her former billiards opponent, her now-empty gloved hands braced against his chest. "I'll letcha keep the money, if you acknowledge that I let you win. You said you needed the cash, you have it now – just seal the deal with a kiss. The bet was, if you win, you get the money. If I win, I get you. Since I _let_ you win, I should at least get _something_ outta the deal, right?"

"How about a black eye?" Kanna scruffed the man and lifted him _off the floor_ by the back of his coat collar. His fearful panting was revenge enough, and Kanna tossed him back away from Maria, toward the gathered crowd. They backed up and let him fall to the floorboards. Maria exhaled and slumped back against the wall, catching her breath.

"'Scuze me, Maria. I didn't mean to steal your fun," Kanna smirked. "You wanna finish him off? ...I mean in the violent way, not in the romantic one. You didn't look like you actually _wanted_ that kiss. Just aim for the knees if yer gonna use your revolver..."

Maria blinked, stunned, at Kanna. A combination of her drunkenness, her surprise, and her unfamiliarity with Japanese served to render Maria speechless.

"I know, I know – ya don't have to tell me _again_," Kanna said as if Maria was about to give an order. "Show mercy. _Especially_ on Christmas Eve. Well, when you're right, you're right!" Kanna hauled Maria upright by the shoulder so rapidly that Maria almost lost her footing again. Keeping a firm hand around Maria's upper arm, Kanna lead her out of the bar via the back door. When Kanna had all but dragged Maria almost a block away and to safety, she dropped the effervescence and turned, pulling Maria into crushing embrace. "Maria! What were you thinking?!"

"I..." was all Maria managed before Kanna figured her out.

"Needed the cash... Maria! You were going to get those gifts for us, weren't you?"

Maria's embarrassed blush bore its usual indignant and mildly angry overtones.

"What possessed you to try this bar? It's dangerous!"

"Am perfectly capable to handle myself," Maria straightened her coat.

"Yeah, I see that..." Kanna replied, sarcastically. "Have you ever even BEEN in a gang bar, Miss Daughter of a Diplomat?"

Maria glared, insulted. But the truth of her past was still long in coming to the members of the Hanagumi.

Kanna sighed. "Maria, you don't have to participate in the gift circle if you don't have the money t—"

"I _have_ it! Or... would have... had it..." Maria's indignance fell away.

"Would have had the money, ha! We woulda found you in a body bag in the morning – or on the doorstep of the theatre all black and blue..." Kanna put her hands on her Captain's shoulders. "Maria... don't do this to yourself. You don't have to get us anything, we know you care about us... even if you... don't... really... ever show it... at all... That's not what's important about Christmas. We don't need what's on our wish lists. That's why they're just wishes. You... _you_ are a 'need,' not a 'wish,' Maria."

Yoneda gave Dimitrovich a watery smile, but Maria's father's expression was still as elusive and impenetrable as his daughter's most often was. Yoneda watched the shadows of Kanna's and Maria's memories wander off into the darkness back uptown. "I hadn't known that had happened. That must have been five years ago—"

"When you were here," Dimitrovich finished the statement, and in doing so, they were in the Imperial Opera Theatre, in the dormitory hallway. It was dark, but a flashlight beam was moving down the hallway from them. Yoneda was startled to see that it was himself, five years younger. He was patrolling on watch, a job he often assisted in doing when the Hanagumi numbered only four girls, ages 19, 19, 16 and 9.

Down the hall from the opposite direction came Ayame Fujieda. Older Yoneda and Younger Yoneda alike caught their breath in reaction. "Turning in, Ayame?" asked the younger version of Yoneda.

"Yes, if that's all right. I'll be out all morning tomorrow, but back in time for the review tomorrow night to help Maria stage manage. The first time is always hard."

"I think she'll be just fine. Merry Christmas, Ayame."

"Merry Christmas, General," Ayame responded and kissed him on the cheek, then turned to go.

"—Ayame," younger Yoneda called when he summoned the courage from his stun at being kissed.

"Yes, General?" she pivoted on one black patent leather heel and tipped her head, inquiringly, a pleasant smile on her lips.

Younger Yoneda hesitated. "Have... have a good day, tomorrow."

Ayame's smile broadened. "You too, sir."

And she left, never suspecting what was going on inside Yoneda's mind and heart when the beloved of one of their two late comrades kissed him.

Older Yoneda's face was damp with tears. "Now she will never know. Even after we found out who Satani was, I... I still never told her. And now she's gone. I hesitated too long. ...Don't show me anything more, Dimitrovich, I beg you! It is torture, please, Dimitr—"When Yoneda turned, Dimitrovich's face was his own, but also Ayame's, and Kazume's, and Ohgami's and Maria's and Kanna's and Kohran's and Iris' and Sumire's and Ayame again... and again... In desperation, Yoneda gripped Dimitrovich's coat lapels, and the holly, mistletoe and tachibana sprig tore free in Yoneda's hands, and he fell, dizzily...

...into his own bed. He strove to sit up, to seek the spirit, but he saw nothing but his own bedroom... and unconsciousness overtook him.

* * *

_(Next chapter: The Ghost of Christmas Present)_


	3. The Ghost of Christmas Present

SAKURA TAISEN/WARS and all related characters, names and indicia are TM & © SEGA RED.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL is written by Charles Dickens, and borrowed by Ice Spectre for her own nefarious purposes.

Rated PG

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Christmas Bells

Part Three: The Ghost of Christmas Present

It was two minutes until two when Yoneda's eyes flew open, apprehensively. His room was dark and empty of anything supernatural. Slowly he sat up and wondered if he had dreamed. Then a prick in the palm of his hand caused him to look down at it, and he found in it Dimitrovich's bouteneer. As if the thing might now decide to burn him, he dropped the sprigs of holly, mistletoe and tachibana to the darkness of the wooden floor in a scatter of drying leaves, blooms and berries.

Then the darkness into which the souvenir had fallen brightened in a red-orange light. The light grew and the source became evident as the clock struck two. It came from the living room fireplace, the one which had cooled to cinders by the time Yoneda had fled to bed from Kazume Shinguji's apparition. Passing shadows broke the light under the door, and a soft and good-natured chuckle emanated from the living room.

"Come, Yoneda!" called a resonating voice that seemed to come from within a great hall, but did not pass the confines of Yoneda's apartment. Yoneda tried to pull the covers over his head, but the fire leaped and brightened, and the voice insisted, laughing heartily from the living room.

Yoneda crossed his bedroom in dread and anticipation. His slippers scuffed the floor and he paused to shiver at one last lingering breath of cold from near the window Maria's father had taken him through only an hour earlier. The door before him was warm, in contrast, and he opened it. Then he stared in wonder.

The living room was alight with dozens and dozens of candles set upon every flat surface. The walls were hung with banners in painted kanji, all proclaiming the tenets of honour, charity, kindness, trust, truth… And before the fireplace, barefooted and dressed in a full martial arts gi tied with a black belt, stood a bald and middle-aged man with a face creased from years of smiling.

"You…" Yoneda breathed.

"Kirishima-Sensei!" the man bowed deeply, introducing himself and confirming Yoneda's suspicions. The ghost of Kanna's father, killed in a brawl of rivalry in Okinawa, not quite seven years ago. Kanna had only just barely joined the Hanagumi when she left to avenge his death, vowing to return, and holding to her promise.

…holding to her promise… upon her honour.

Yoneda smiled despite himself, and returned the bow. Kirishima laughed and came to Yoneda, clapping him on the back and pouring two cups of sake for them. The living room was warm and comfortable, and the light of the many candles chased the shadows from every corner of the room. Yoneda was suffused with a feeling of comfort and content. "You have not seen the likes of me before, I think!" Kirishima chuckled and hoisted his cup to Yoneda.

Yoneda drank with him and set the cup down again. "No… not if you are to be compared at all to the ghost of the past…"

In a distinctly 'sensei'-like voice, Kirishima responded. "The past is only cold and frightening to those who ignore it and choose to learn nothing from it, Yoneda-san."

Yoneda seemed to drink this wisdom and well, and nodded sombrely. "What disturbs your poor spirit from its well-earned rest with your ancestors, Kirishima-Sensei?"

It seemed to please Kirishima to be called 'teacher' by Yoneda, as if it were the precisely right way to regard their meeting. "I have come to show you what value there is in the moment of now – this very instant – the present time. The present is something we are all so very good at wasting in our tireless attempts not to waste it."

This confused Yoneda for a moment, but only for a moment, and then he understood the "stop and smell the roses" sentiment behind it.

Yoneda found himself very strangely comfortable with this spirit, and so he did not shy from him quite so long as he did from Maria's father. "If you have something to show me, Sensei, let us go, and I will attempt to learn from it."

Kirishima was again pleased by this response and he smiled, held out his arms presentingly. "Take hold of my sleeve." Yoneda complied, closing his eyes this time in preparation for being instantly elsewhere.

When he opened his eyes again, he was indeed elsewhere – in Sumire's room in the Imperial Opera Theatre. It was late and Yoneda felt suddenly uncomfortable at their very inappropriate location. But Sumire was not sleeping, nor was her room dark. Remembering that this was the present time, Yoneda cringed.

"Is she real?" he whispered to Kirishima.

"She is real. But she cannot see us. _We_ are the shadows, now."

The stack of gifts in Sumire's room was far from unusual, she received gifts from her adoring audience very often. And though all these gifts had her name on them, they were not for her. They were _from_ her, for those she loved most dearly. And they were not finished being wrapped.

Sumire's art was exacting. Each package's paper was without wrinkle. Each ribbon curled to perfection, and each ribbon also had one fresh flower tied into the bow on top, in some colour and shape which coordinated with the paper's pattern and colour. Each card was inked in meticulous calligraphy and sprinkled with gold dust before the ink was dry.

Yoneda's jaw dropped in surprise. "I thought the department stores did all that wrapping and decorating for her…"

Kirishima grinned and shook his head. "They asked her, but she said she would prefer to do it herself. She does this every year, and scarcely sleeps at all on the night before Christmas."

In a flash, they were in the dormitory hall, where Kanna was softly closing Iris' bedroom door. Kohran stood in the hall beside her, her pockets filled with hand tools and her nose smudged with gear grease.

"Is she asleep?" Kohran whispered, and Kanna nodded.

"She was pretty upset about the song, but I explained how busy the boss is, and we'll sing for him again tomorrow on the actual holiday. AND, she has NO idea about the gift… how is it coming?"

Yoneda looked, confused, to Kirishima, as if to ask for a clue, but Kirishima's smile only broadened mischeviously, his eyes did not leave his daughter.

Kohran drew the back of her sleeve across her forehead and adjusted her glasses on her nose. "Well, getting it small and light enough has been harder than I thought, but I think she can manage."

"Will it fit in this?" Kanna held up a teddy-bear-sized backpack.

"Yep!" Kohran grinned proudly, folding her arms. Kanna laughed in triumph and thumped Kohran on the back, making the smaller engineer stumble forward a step.

"I didn't know they were working on a gift for Jean-Paul," Yoneda said, softly. "It MUST be that robotic repair kit, Iris was talking about it months ago, but then she seems to have forgotten…"

"Her friends did not forget," Kirishima smiled. In a slow gesture, he lifted his arms straight out at his sides, then clapped his hands together. Upon the sound of his hands, they were in the theatre itself, backstage. Maria stood there, still awake and still dressed, wearing her red shirt and black pants, her Enfield holstered under her arm, and a flashlight in her hand.

Ohgami was on his hands and knees before her. "A little to the right," he instructed her, and Maria moved the beam of the flashlight right. Ohgami stretched his arms under the rows of sandbags hanging on ropes and with a groan of strain, sat back, triumphant, with a dusty manila envelope clutched in one fist. Maria's lips quirked in a crooked smile. "Got it!" Ohgami told her. "Whew…" then a dizziness overcame him and he sat down hard on the backstage floor.

Maria knelt before him, directing the beam of light away from his face. "You are exhausted, _Taicho_," she said. "Let me finish this. You go to bed."

"No, no! I want to help. Besides, have you EVER seen this much money in one place that wasn't meant for someone else?" Ohgami opened the envelope of their savings to ruffle the bills. Maria smirked in response to the question. Then Ohgami blushed. "Oh. Heh. Of course you have."

"Technically, I have only seen that many _American_ bills…"

"All right, have you ever seen so much money that wasn't _blood _money in th—" Ohgami blanched at the absolutely blood-freezing deathly glare Maria was dealing him. "I… omigosh, I didn't mean that. Maria, I'm sorry."

"Because is Christmas," Maria seethed. Then, after a pause, she whapped him lightly over the head anyway. "Does anyone have any hint? Or all still no idea?"

Ohgami pouted and ineffectually ran his fingers through is disarrayed hair, then responded to the question. "They all still think we're just going to walk downtown and look around at the lights. How many carriages did you hire?"

"Two."

Ohgami pursed his lips in thought. "Is it too late to add a third?"

"_Da,_" Maria sat down across from him and wrapped her arms around her bent knees. "Too late. Besides, no money left for three. And can fit four in one carriage, five in other. Put Iris, Kohran, Yuri, Tsubaki, Sumire in one, rest of us in other – they are the smallest."

"Good. And lunch on the ice rink?"

"Tables for eleven reserved right next to ice – General Yoneda and Kaede will meet us there at 1:00."

"Did you _ask_ General Yoneda if he wants to come? He was… really busy in the office today…" Ohgami cringed to think of Yoneda breaking away from the daunting task of coming up with money, in order to go and spend money extravagantly at a restaurant.

Maria shook her head and pursed her lips. "Just Lieutenant Commander, and she will bring General Yoneda, she said."

"Better her than me," Ohgami chuckled.

Maria, in usual Marialike fashion, did not comment.

In a blink, Kirishima and Yoneda were in the lobby of the theatre, where whispers and a soft light emanated from the box office.

"Good grief," Yoneda sighed, "Doesn't ANYONE sleep in this place?"

"Not on Christmas Eve," Kirishima beamed and clapped Yoneda on the back, in a striking imitation of his daughter's gesture earlier.

Kasumi, Tsubaki and Yuri sat in a small circle of chairs in the main office of the theatre, whispering over an envelope.

"We should wake him up and tell him now, " Yuri smiled, almost giddy with anticipation.

"No, no! Wait until the curtain goes down, he'll be in a good mood then…" Kasumi reasoned.

"That's _if_ no one messes up their lines!" Tsubaki's eyes were round and wide.

Kasumi lifted the envelope addressed to the Imperial Opera Theatre. "I've never seen a donation this large. Do you think he'd mind doing the production they request considering the size of the contribution?"

Yuri laughed. "I don't think he'd mind at all! I can't believe the letter isn't signed… and there is no return address!"

Tsubaki remained wide-eyed with amazement. "What if we have our own personal phantom of the Opera?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Tsubaki," Kasumi scowled at the freckle-faced girl. "There are no such things as ghosts."

Kirishima caught Yoneda by the arm as he tried to creep closer to the envelope Kasumi was holding. "Peeking is not allowed. You asked if anyone sleeps, one does!"

And Kirishima pulled Yoneda by the arm, turning him around… and they were in a different room.

The green room in the Imperial Theatre was no more 'green' than it was in just about any theatre anywhere. It is what theatres call their reception room for patrons wanting to visit with the actors before or after the show. And the green room of the Imperial Theatre was huge, and carpeted in deep burgundy with walls of a gold-yellow paint.

In the corner stood a tall evergreen tree topped with a star. It was decorated beautifully with ornaments mimicking musical instruments, scrolls of music paper, and strings of popcorn and cranberries. To the tree topper was ties several long ribbons which cascaded down the tree as if it were a maypole, in colours which did not seem to match the season – black, white, pink, purple, yellow, red, green, blue, fuschia… Yoneda grinned as he knew in an instant that there was a ribbon colour for each of the Hanagumi.

And on the sofa beside the tree lay Sakura, fast asleep. She was on her side on the deep red velvet chaise. Her kimono skirt spilled over the edge to the floor, her arm hung over the edge as well, and under her hand on the floor lay a roll of white ribbon – Ohgami's colour. She must have dropped it in her sleep.

Her hair was splayed across the cushion of the couch, laying in swaths over her face as well. Yoneda smiled as something akin to fatherly affection seemed to bloom inside his heart. He did, after all, swear to Kazume to care for his daughter as if she were his own. Yoneda stepped closer to brush the hair from the girl's face, but could not touch her.

Instead, he turned to look at the room. It was hung with gold and burgundy ribbons from the center chandelier to all corners of the room. The bottom of the tree was full already with gifts, and Sumire had not even brought hers down yet. Sakura's were all wrapped in the colours of the girl for whom the gift was intended. But they were not separated out, they were all mixed together – and Yoneda realized how much fun Iris would have sorting out the gifts for everyone, as tended to be her practice.

Three more chairs had been brought into the room to accommodate everyone who would be here in the morning. On the far table lay a stack of small books, leather covers in the colours of each girl, and then a few additional colours that Yoneda presumed would be for Kaede, Kasumi, Tsubaki, Yuri and himself. They were small photo albums, gifts from Kohran.

Candles had been set up all around the room, and a book of matches set on the end table so they could be lit in the morning. A silver tea service sat on the coffee table with everything prepared except the hot water.

"Sakura did all this?" Yoneda gestured to the decorated room and turned to Kirishima.

"Most of it, yes."

"That's a lot of work…"

"She did not think so," Kirishima smiled. "To her, it was tremendous fun."

"But she was up so late, and it took her so long, and she is exhausted…"

"Much of that was trying to keep Iris from running away again. Sakura spent two hours with Iris, convincing her to stay, and then only gave the task over to Kanna so she could finish decorating in here." Kirishima's voice was scolding.

Yoneda flinched. "Running away again? Oh, no… Kirishima, tell me, Iris gets over this… this… need to run off all the time… doesn't she?"

Kirishima's voice lowered and he turned to the chair set for Iris. "I forsee an empty space at the table in the commissary on Christmas Day, and a teddy bear with no owner. If things remain unchanged, none of my kind will find her here again."

"No, that cannot be! Say that Iris will be all right! Say she will stay!"

"Why? At least she will never bother you with French songs in the middle of your busy day again."

Yoneda covered his eyes with his hands in regret. And when he took his hands away, Kirishima was gone.

"Kirishima?"

The clock in the hall struck three.

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End file.
